


A Chance Meeting

by ara_chan



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A Study in Scarlet, Baritsu, Drug Use, M/M, Prequel, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ara_chan/pseuds/ara_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the two men really met and what happened after, as opposed to the somewhat less scandalous version that Dr Watson published years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Medical School trumps fun; chapters will be posted as quickly as classes allow. Everything is at least outlined, so hopefully finishing and editing things won't take too long.

Few things are quite as frustrating to a man of an academic mindset as matters of a pecuniary nature. That was one of my firmest beliefs during the early years of the second decade of my life. Since leaving my family's home for the University of London, I had become acutely aware of the things a man could be forced to do because of money, or a lack thereof. Very quickly, my own monetary needs came to odds with the necessity to devote my time to developing my professional skills. After more than a year of residency in the city, I had managed to limit my expenditures to only three things of any consequence: food, rent, and the cost required to gain access to the University's texts and laboratory equipment. To my great irritation, I found myself in possession of funds sufficient for only two of the three. After being told in no uncertain terms by the University's night patrolmen that policy forbade students from kipping in the library after hours, I decided that my only course of action was to refrain from indulging in anything more extravagant than cold meat sandwiches and tea until such time as I managed to procure for myself a partner willing to suffer my idiosyncrasies--or at least one desperate enough for fiscal assistance that he wouldn't mind some late-night violin playing. 

Unfortunately, such an undertaking was easier to propose than to accomplish. Five months of searching for such a man had left me the better part of a stone lighter and no closer to finding a fellow student willing to share the unseemly burden of expenses. More than once in that time, my brother, out of some misplaced sense of filial obligation, had offered to assist with my debts, insisting that I looked positively haggard. It wasn't just personal pride that caused me to turn down Mycroft's generosity. While I would like to say that it was because he was only making enough to support himself in his London flat, in truth my motive was far less altruistic. Despite familial pressures to become a barrister or a judiciary or to take up some other acceptable profession, I had always known in what manner I wished to make my livelihood. As a young lad, I may not have been entirely able to foresee the exact direction in which events would unfold, but my life had only ever held one passion. My time in London, every available moment of it, had been devoted to crafting an entirely new and otherwise unheard of profession. In order for my chosen field to command any respect, it had to be capable of supporting me on its own merits. Accepting handouts or charity, even from my own brother, would have diminished the accomplishments that I had been working so arduously to achieve. 

At the moment, all incoming funds were immediately turned around to purchase the materials necessary for my trade. Oh, how my father would have hated that word: "trade". Not even my brother, the only person in the entire Holmes clan whose company I could endure for long stretches of time, not even he understood the necessity of sweating or becoming dirty in order to put food on the table for the day. Or that people who cannot afford outlandish fees are typically those most in need of those charging for their services. For that reason, I made it my practice to turn no one away who came to me for assistance. For that reason, all manner of Londoners had crossed my doorstep over the past year. At this point in my fledgling career, most of my clients were taken on not to pay my own bills but to spread the word of my ability and the quality of my service. Those people sent to me by private inquiring agencies, typically had such mundane and dreadfully boring problems that I could hardly be bothered to answer their questions. It was a rare and wonderful thing when one had a mystery so profound that I actually had to leave my sitting room in order to deduce the proper solution. No, it was with men such as Gregson and Lestrade that I should one day make my mark. For the present, they took all the credit for my deductive reasoning, and I gained little notoriety, but a great deal of invaluable experience --though not from the men themselves. To my great dismay, I was reminded time and again that Scotland Yard's finest were woefully out of their depth. But Gregson and Lestrade granted me access to crime scenes from robbery to murders, and association with them allowed me to form a network of contacts within the constabulary of the Yard – even if most of them were a pack of thick-skulled imbeciles without a modicum of common sense.

Which brings me back to the subject of my classmates. In the end, I suppose it was for the best that I could find no one willing to go into diggings with me. Even at the best of times, the small-mindedness of others taxes my patience. Though it was of supreme injustice that not twenty-four hours after my latest rejection, I found the most remarkable set of rooms imaginable. The landlady, one Mrs Hudson by name, had opened the upper level of her home to take on renters. She had said, in the brief interview that I had with her, that it was a waste to let the space go unused now that her children were all grown. However, it was my supposition that with the recent death of her husband, the lady was eager for some occupation to keep her mind and hands busy. Regardless of the fact that I could not bring to mind the name of a single individual left to ask about sharing lodgings, I gave Mrs Hudson every coin in my possession not absolutely necessary to pay for the use of the hospital laboratory. In exchange, she agreed to hold the rooms for me until I could find a suitable flatmate, and she had most obligingly consented to a two-week stay on the remainder of the cost to allow me such time. Once I found a suitable man of sufficient means, we would be able to move in immediately. Otherwise, the funds would be returned to me, and the most perfect set of rooms would be given to another party. I made quite certain to leave her with no impression that I had completely run out of acquaintances to whom I could propose such an arrangement. 

With no one left to call upon, I decided to sequester myself away for a day or two before tackling the arduous task of accosting complete strangers in order to find a flatmate. Typically, any amount of time spent in the laboratory was enough to raise my spirits from whatever occasional black cloud might settle upon me; however, with the threat of utter destitution looming in my immediate future, there was no spring in my step as I made my way to the chemical storeroom, despite the prospect of several hours of intense research. As I entered the room, I found one of my fellows there, having just finished up. Samson was his name; that, or Stamford; perhaps Standish. I couldn't recall anything beyond the memory that he was a dull and uninquisitive man. In proper observance of social niceties, he hailed me, and we exchanged pleasantries. It turned out that he was at the hospital for a series of seminars on advanced surgical techniques being given by a number of visiting scholars. 

When he inquired after my health, I couldn't help lamenting my current living arrangements, the Baker Street lodgings, and my lack of an obliging partner. Thankfully, he only offered his condolences and went about his business, leaving me to mine. I was grateful for that, as I had an incredibly complex and long-standing project to take up. Since coming to London and having access to sufficiently delicate equipment, I had been attempting to devise a method by which different types of blood could be perceived from one another. My success in this matter would lend immeasurable aid to police investigations. While Lestrade and Gregson currently benefitted from my direct assistance in their cases, a breakthrough of this magnitude would allow those unable to seek my advice to differentiate human blood from animal blood or to precipitate it out of a larger body of liquid. So many innocents could be spared, and just as many villains could be sent to the rope, if only I could improve upon the inadequate Guiacum test currently in place. 

The elementary aspect of the experiment was, of course, to isolate the contents of the blood cells. When immersed in water, red blood cells lyse and spill their contents into the solution. An alkaline state causes the hemoglobin to denature, and such can be achieved by adding a base solvent. The trick of the matter had been determining exactly which solvent--or combination thereof--to use. Fortunately, mine is a temperament that thrives upon such challenges. Even a short time among my glassware and chemicals and lamps put me in a much improved state of mind. It is understandable to me how one not in the profession might not fully comprehend either the magnitude of such a discovery as that of which I was on the cusp, or my enthusiasm at discovering the proper mixture at long last. The hours bent over the bench that afternoon had, rather unexpectedly, produced the very effect that I had desired. The process began with seven milliliters of distilled water in a clean and sterilized test tube, to which a single drop of blood was added. The number of plaster squares upon my hands attested to the many trials I had given to this endeavor. From there, I mixed one gram of crystalline sodium hydroxide which, once fully dissolved, turned the solution a dull mahogany color. The true touch of genius was the stroke of insight that led me to use that in combination with two and a half milliliters of saturated ammonium sulfate. I was barely able to contain myself as I watched the brownish dust precipitate out. 

So overcome was I by my discovery, that I leapt to my feet the moment that I heard another enter the laboratory. "I've found it!" I shouted, holding up the test tube for all to see. Standish-whomever had returned to the lab along with a gentleman perhaps only a few years his senior. Upon cursory observation, I presumed him to be associated with the seminar of which my classmate had spoken, as the man was clearly a surgeon recently returned from Afghanistan. The slight limp in his gait and the stiff manner in which he carried himself as he walked spoke of having been wounded in battle, and the degree to which he tried to cover the signs of his injuries suggested that he either wanted no one to know of his wounds or that he wished to play them down in an effort to be returned to active duty at the front. Either way, surgeon or not, military men held very little of my regard at the moment, and so I wasted no time in latching myself upon my classmate's arm to tell him of my discovery. 

"I've found it," I repeated with no less exuberance than the first time. Once again, I held up the test tube for his inspection, and I couldn't bring myself to care in the slightest that I was beaming like a child on Christmas Day in front of a total stranger. "At great length, I have finally found a reagent which causes the precipitation of human hemoglobin from a solution, and nothing else." 

Without so much as a remark on my magnificent accomplishment, Stamford made a point of reminding me of my manners. "Doctor Watson," said he, "this is Mister Sherlock Holmes." Having been put in my place regarding proper etiquette, I extended my hand in greeting, though the doctor did seem taken aback when I made a casual observation about his background. Regardless of his curiosity on the matter, I wasn't to be swayed from the more important matter at hand: my experiment. A dismissive remark on my discovery had hardly left the doctor's lips before I had seized him by the coat sleeve to draw him over to where my chemicals and vials were still set up. 

It must be said that my esteem for Dr John Watson improved by leaps and bounds in the minutes that followed. Stamford's disinterest in my work wasn't surprising in the least, but Watson looked on with rapt attention as I lanced a fresh finger to demonstrate. As my brother can attest, I always do my best work with another of a like mind looking on, and Watson proved to be a most obliging audience as I repeated the steps necessary to isolate the hemoglobin in my blood. The ability to test dried blood days, weeks, even _months_ old had been, until now, an impossibility for Scotland Yard, as unmanageable a task for them as it was for my classmate to imagine a reason for needing such a test. It was only my great strength of character and the presence of a guest that kept me from making any untoward remarks about his intelligence. I realized anew why it was that he and I never spoke outside of the chance encounter at the hospital, although his friend, Watson, was quickly grabbing more and more of my interest. His sharp eyes were kept keenly on my labors as I went about producing another precipitation of the brownish cells. Had Watson been staying long, I should have been tempted to invite him back to participate in future experiments. Now that I had isolated human blood, there was still much work to do in order to differentiate other types of blood as well for the purposes of police testing. From the way Watson continued to examine myself and the materials laid out about me on the workbench, it seemed like a pursuit he might be taken with. However, I did not then have a chance to fully form the idea. 

While I was applying a bit more plaster to my hand, Stamford, whom I'd very nearly forgotten was even there, uttered the only words that could have possibly made me more pleased than I already was. "We came here on business," said he as he seated himself on a high stool and rather casually offered the other to his companion by sliding it over with his foot. "My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought that I had better bring you together." 

I was nearly floored by the news. Not only had the prospect arisen of a person with whom I could share the most perfect set of rooms, but he was both a gentleman and a scholar. I was so positively giddy at that moment that it's a wonder I didn't send the man running from the room with my inability to properly articulate a thought. Everything said from that point, it seemed, made me laugh and smile, which might have given Watson something of a skewed perspective of my usual disposition. It all seemed too perfect to be true: a quiet, studious man with a certain military pension who was interested in expanding his mind and didn't know any better than to go halves with me on a very reasonably priced set of rooms. Rather than having him change his mind only a few short weeks into our partnership, I decided it best to lay out my vices plainly for him to see. Standish must not have told him much of my character, for Watson still seemed to be intent and amiable about taking up with me. I was somewhat close to the subject for total objectivity, but I did point out to him what I felt were my greatest faults. I smoke constantly when the fit is upon me, I surround myself with experiments and chemicals, and I keep the oddest of hours. 

"Would that annoy you?" I inquired of him, hopeful that there would be no reason for objection. When none was forthcoming, I felt compelled to add, "Sometimes, I get down in the dumps and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just leave me alone, and I'll soon be right again. My melancholy and periodic fits of insomnia are typically brief and passing." Standish was trying to reign in his expression, stating clearly in his silence that he felt I had a number of other faults as well. Which was only fair, I suppose, that my peers should think less of me, as I consider them all to be imbeciles. "What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of each other before they begin to live together." 

My classmate's silence didn't deter Watson from his own enthusiasm as he listed inconsequential factors about himself that were far cries from being 'faults', most of which overlapped with my own. Beyond that, the injuries he had sustained in the war made him a bit sensitive to excessive ruckus, and his continued convalescence caused him to have some difficulty sleeping easily. The only minor point of concern was his ownership of a pup. I wasn't entirely certain how Mrs Hudson would feel about the matter, but there was no harm in asking her if the animal might be permitted. 

I don't typically consider myself to be a vain person, no more so than the typical man, but I must admit to taking a great deal of pleasure in the way that Watson hung on my every word and even turned back again to take in my experiment once more. It was amazing, I thought just then, how one can start a day in such a foul mood, wondering how one would eat that evening, only to finish the day with a chemical discovery that would revolutionize the modern policing practice as well as having obtained a new flatmate. A flatmate, moreover, who not only needed my assistance as much as I needed his, but who also held the promise of a true companion with whom I could pleasantly share my days. "I think we may consider the thing as settled," I said with another merry laugh, clapping my hands once at the prospect. "That is, of course, if the rooms are agreeable to you." 

"When shall we see them?" The slight note of anxious excitement in his tone did wonders for assuring me that he felt that this matter would go smoothly as well. 

"Call for me here at noon, tomorrow," I replied, taking his hand once more as Stamford rose to take his leave. "Meet me here, and we'll go 'round together and settle everything."

*****


	2. Chapter 2

There was no question in my mind, from the moment I clapped eyes on Mister Sherlock Holmes, that I had found the man with whom I wanted to share my living space. Holmes was obviously a gentleman; everything about his manner and the way he carried himself spoke of the refined and polished upbringing of an upper class family. However, in either some act of rebellion or a bout of forgetfulness such as can occasionally come upon men of genius, he seemed to have put aside the usual formalities of his station. His clothes were in impeccable taste, though the apron he wore had done little to protect his waistcoat and shirtsleeves from becoming rumpled and stained. His hair appeared as if it had seen neither comb nor brush in days, and his chin had gone unshaven for at least as long.

One might have thought that an upright military man would be repelled by such unseemliness, but to the contrary, I found myself instantly attracted to him like two polar ends of a magnet. Holmes was exactly the sort of refreshing change that my nerves required. Even my brief sojourn to the Criterion Bar that very afternoon had left me feeling drained, but with Holmes, I had a feeling that he would not require me to be constantly mindful of the elaborate dance that society dictated gentlemen take part in. And while Stamford had been uncertain what field of study my new friend was engaged in, Holmes was clearly in possession of a vast intellect. I looked forward to being able to discuss with him the different theories of the medical and chemical degrees, one of which he must have been seeking. I was especially curious about the reasons for which he might have been interested in bruising a dissection cadaver – why no one present at the time had thought to question him about it was beyond me!

Those were the reasons that I allowed myself to dwell upon. I had another, baser reason for wanting to take up lodgings with Sherlock Holmes, however. Something about the man was appealing to me in a way that I had not felt since before being dispatched to India. Through my youth and my time at the University of London, I had engaged in a healthy social life, but upon arriving at Netley, everything became a whirlwind of activity as boats, ships, and trains all served as ambulances to bring in patients and war casualties to be treated. Between stints in the operating theaters amid a sea of wounded, we were expected to prepare ourselves for our own journey to the front lines. There was hardly time for more than longing looks, the fleeting caress of hands as instruments were passed, and the swiftest of sordid, late-night engagements. Nearly a year of continuous illness, brain fever, and convalescence after that had managed to chase from my mind any desires of an intimate nature. So it was to my great surprise that I should feel a stirring of interest so suddenly and over such a man as Mister Sherlock Holmes.

I was so taken aback by the intensity of the man's gaze and by the instant response of heat spreading out from my stomach that I was barely capable of expressing myself when spoken to. The embarrassment I felt over my own lack of articulation only served to worsen the matter. At least no offense seemed to have been taken at my blatant staring! To the contrary, Holmes appeared to be receptive to my less than subtle appreciation of his person. Some men are difficult to read, and Holmes could most certainly be counted among those whose inclinations are well hidden. I couldn't tell if the brush of his hand along mine was deliberate or by chance as he pulled me over to his workbench. 

His hands were especially captivating. When he shook mine in greeting, it required an exertion of willpower not to run my thumb along the flat of his palm. It wasn't calloused like a man accustomed to manual labor, but neither was it soft like a woman or one of those fancy dandies who live off their family estates; and his grip was strong. I had difficulty following the experiment of which he was so proud rather than simply focusing on his dexterous fingers. They were stained with blotches of ink and splashes of chemicals, and bits of plaster protected numerous scratches from the poisons he dealt with. His hands were decisively masculine and as nimble and proficient as those of any surgeon I'd seen. Fortunately, Stamford did not appear to take any notice of the entire exchange. Somehow, he actually seemed bored by the matter. Holmes, on the other hand, became increasingly animated as our conversation progressed, and we parted ways with a promise to meet again the next day to inspect the rooms he had found.

As agreed upon, we met the following afternoon outside the entrance to the University hospital. With cat-like stealth, my soon-to-be flatmate came up behind me and gave me a considerable start as he tapped my shoulder. He did not apologize for having made me jump, but the sliest of expressions crossed his face, which had been fastidiously shaved that morning. The look lingered only a moment before disappearing as quickly as it had come, and he took me by the elbow to point us in the direction of Baker Street. As the weather was exceptionally fine, I wasn't opposed to a stroll. I had my walking stick, and I assumed that the fresh air would do me good. It was also an excellent opportunity to become better acquainted with my new friend, or so I thought. It turned out that Holmes wasn't as easy to draw out as I had assumed. He was a master of deflection, and no sooner had I had posed a question than he had turned it back around on me. All that I had managed to learn of the man by the time we arrived in the Marylebone neighborhood was that he was not, in fact, a medical student, and that he did not seem to have any aversion to my brushing up against his arm as we walked.

What Holmes had said of the place proved not to have been an exaggeration. The rooms truly were some of the finest located in an exceptional neighborhood. I could see immediately why Holmes had been interested in them, for when the landlady named her price, I had thought for certain that I must have misheard her. Mrs Hudson was a sweet-tempered woman who took us from room to room, telling us of each of her children in turn as we entered what had formerly been their bedrooms. As she had raised two girls and two boys, the space was quite large, though she had since converted it into two sleeping rooms with attached studies for whomever was to rent from her. Each room was cheerfully furnished, and she had had them freshly papered, saying that the childish wallpaper that had been up for so many years wasn't appropriate for a pair of gentlemen. After a brief inspection, Holmes offered to take the rooms at the end of the hall, claiming that they had better ventilation for his experiments, as they were above the kitchen, and that they would prevent anyone from being disturbed by his occasionally keeping late hours. I was pleased to note that this left me with the room that boasted a private entrance to the bath and adjoining WC. Both were accessible from the hall, but it was a bit of good fortune for me that I did not feel was entirely coincidental, judging by the brief look that Holmes gave me before heading downstairs to inspect the building further.

On the first floor, Mrs Hudson's own rooms were in the back, while the front of the townhome was dominated by a large foyer and a sitting room. Broad windows looked out over the street and illuminated the parlor with sunny bands of light. There was also a formal dining room with a table large enough to entertain several guests. The kitchen was run by a very pleasant-faced young woman by the name of Janet. From the kitchen, a narrow stairwell led up to the attic where she resided, and a box room was positioned beside it, though the former hall boy was no longer employed by the house. As Holmes had indicated, everything about the apartments was so perfect that it would have been foolish to turn them down. For only fourteen shillings a week, total, we were to be given a place to stay, meals, tea, and the scullery maid would ensure our washing was done. We immediately agreed to the conditions and entered into possession of the rooms. That very evening, I had my belongings boxed and brought over from the hotel. Holmes was kind enough to assist with the heavier lifting before having his own things delivered the following morning.

With no small measure of certainty, I feel confident in saying that the days that followed were some of the best I had experienced in years. Being able to settle myself into a place I could call my own rather than a hotel suite or an army barrack was most appealing. And the more time I spent in the company of Sherlock Holmes, the more I found that the man stimulated my curiosity. He was by no means a difficult man to get on with, though he possessed a number of idiosyncrasies that made clear the reason for Stamford's somewhat doubtful opinion of him. Most likely because I had mentioned my not-yet recovered nerves, I could tell that he was making an effort to keep quiet as he moved about the house, though it was rare to see him there at all. Owing to my lazy nature and the lack of a bugle call, I never rose before he had left the house for his morning business, and he always retired to his rooms by ten at night. I could still hear him moving about softly, but I decided to leave him to his privacy. If he wished to share his activities with me, then he would have to be the one to bring it up. 

Unable to go out myself on most days, I passed the time by putting my things into what were to be their proper places and by attempting to guess what it was that my elusive flatmate did with his time. It was easy to tell when he had been to the dissecting rooms at the hospital, for he would bring with him to the apartments the lingering aroma of the chemicals used to preserve the subjects. When his journeys led him to the laboratory, Holmes would always return with fresh supplies to stock his rooms at home, no longer having much use for the University's equipment now that he had his own space. One of his strangest habits seemed to be that he enjoyed indulging in lengthy strolls that would take him into the lowest parts of London. He never failed to return from one of these journeys with his trouser legs spattered with mud and other, less savory substances. The mess never upset him, though; rather, Holmes seemed to delight in it, like a child in a rain puddle. I once made a chiding remark about the habit, entirely in jest, and rather than becoming upset, he rewarded me with an invitation to spend the remainder of the evening in his rooms as he proudly detailed to me the places he had been that day and how each stain had been acquired. 

As the weeks went by, my interest in Holmes and my curiosity as to his aims in life gradually increased and deepened. When set with a problem to work upon, nothing and no one could match pace with the energy he poured into a task, but by turns, he could be seized with the occasional fit of torpor that caused me some degree of concern. He would either lie upon the sofa in the sitting room or sprawl haphazardly across the arms of a chair and not move a muscle for hours on end. Such a vacant expression would dull his features during those times that I could not help suspecting the use of some narcotic. It was a concern over this matter that finally prompted me to break with the usual boundaries of flatmates and to impose myself in his private affairs. Beginning small and proceeding through increasing measures, I decided to engage him and to break through the reticence that he showed on all that concerned himself. I was confident that companionship would help keep him from those exceptionally low points, and the endeavor would also give me a reprieve from the daily monotony of life through the complete mystery that was Sherlock Holmes. 

With mere observation alone, I was able to determine a number of things about the man. Individually, each was an interesting fact, but together, they wove a most bizarre tapestry, tangled in knots that I was unable to unravel. The first of such observations was the number and variety of books the man possessed. I couldn't imagine how he had fit them all into whatever lodgings he had been keeping before this, so numerous were the volumes on his shelves. All manner of topics were accounted for in his collection, from cookery books to molecular theory, anatomical structure to ancient tomes in languages I couldn't begin to comprehend. None of it lent itself to any sort of degree of which I was aware, yet he had an extraordinary passion for not simply reading them but for gleaning precise and exacting minutiae from the wide array of topics. Yet at the same time, Holmes left remarkable gaps in his formal education. It was my determination that either Holmes was one of those detestable men whose income was delivered regularly in accordance with the size of the family's estate, and thus his preferred method of passing the time was by familiarizing himself with a little of all knowledges while mastering none, or he had some as-yet unknown reason for selecting the matters that he did study. 

With regard to chemistry and physics, I personally knew of no one who could equal him in scope of knowledge or application thereof. Holmes also possessed a great deal of understanding of geology, being in possession of a number of works by Georges Cuvier, Charles Lyell, and the like. However, it was his interest in anatomy that threw me off the scent of his prospective profession. He dedicated nearly as much time as any medical student to the University hospital and dissecting rooms, but his approach was entirely unsystematic – and from his own mouth, he admitted that he had no interest in the pursuit of medicine, though he did have a high regard for those who wished to devote their lives to the aid of others. Also to his credit, Holmes appeared to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the last hundred years. Sensational literature seemed to be the only form of writing with which he was familiar. Carlyle, Mill, Planché, even the Poet Laureate, all escaped him. The arts did not elude him entirely, however. Holmes owned a violin, which looked to me like any other violin I had ever seen, though he did spend one afternoon extolling the virtues of this sort versus that sort, of which the differences completely escaped me. All of it that I understood was that he could play quite well when he set his mind to it. Some of the worst noises imaginable could be forced out of that instrument when Holmes's mind was set upon something else and he simply scraped the bow across the strings, but he could also produce exquisite melodies of extreme complexity.

It was that very aptitude for the violin that finally drew me into his confidence, at least to some measure. 

Some months after we had moved into the townhome at Baker Street, word came that Mrs Hudson's eldest daughter was with child, and it was decided upon that she would travel to Southampton for a few days to help prepare her daughter's household. Only after Holmes and I had sworn solemn oaths that it would not inconvenience either of us did Mrs Hudson depart with the serving girl as her travelling companion and with our best wishes for the joyous occasion. The rest of the day passed little-changed with not but a pair of bachelors present. Holmes declared that he was off to the University to bring back the last of his equipment, and he spent the majority of the day in his favorite pursuits: working with his chemicals and muddying his trousers by traversing the streets of London. In his absence, Gladstone and I engaged in a lengthy nap in a warm sunbeam. The extra rest was greatly appreciated at the time; however, it proved to have been a poorly thought-through plan as I found myself wide awake long after the street lamps had been lit and the clock had chimed only once on the hour. Yet if it were not for that nap, I doubt that I would have heard the soft sounds of the violin coming from down the hall. The music was muffled by the walls between our rooms and by the snorts and snores that Gladstone made as he chased some unknown prey in his sleep, but there was no mistaking my flatmate's bowing. 

I had never considered myself to be the sort to pry into another man's affairs, but the mournful adagio coming from Holmes's apartment drew me out from my room and into the hall. It was as if my feet had a will of their own, pulling me along to stand in front of his door, listening, even as I knew I ought to return to my bed. The doleful notes weighed upon my heart and made me wonder what could have transpired for Holmes to produce such a melody. Equal measures of concern and desire to hear more of the man's playing kept me planted outside his door despite myself. It could not have been long that I remained there, attempting to decide whether I should knock or not, when the music suddenly came to a halt and the door was opened from within. My mouth worked open and closed a few times as I tried to find words to apologize for my intrusion, but Holmes beat me to it, as if he had been the one in the wrong.

"My deepest apologies," said Holmes, the instrument still in his hand as he held the door open with the other. I had difficulty pulling my eyes away from the length of him to meet his gaze as he stood there in his shirtsleeves, with so many buttons undone, hinting at a finely-toned body underneath the numerous layers with which English gentlemen armor themselves. Seeming not to notice my untoward staring, he added in that same, guilty tone, "If I had known you were still awake, I would have found some other means of passing the time."

"Actually, I quite enjoy your playing; you have an impressive talent for it." My fingers itched to reach out and card through the wild mess of Holmes's hair. So pressing was the impulse that I had to stuff my hands into the pockets of my trousers. "And I should be the one apologizing, for disturbing you. I wouldn't normally intrude upon a man's privacy, but, well, if the music is at all reflective of your mood, I thought perhaps you wouldn't be opposed to some company."

Holmes clearly had a polite refusal on the tip of his tongue. His mouth opened, ready at once to send me away, but instead, he replied by saying, "That would be most enjoyable." It was clearly not what he had intended to say, as a moment of surprise flashed across his face before being smothered by a smooth, easy smile. Turning back into the room, he left the door open wide for me to enter.

*****


End file.
